About eight that night, as master and man were returning from their usual Sunday evening exercises in the abbey chapel, Antonio told José that he had sheltered under Senhor Jorge's roof and that he had promised to assist at one of his serões. José tramped along without replying: but it was plain he had a comment to make.
"Is there something you want to say, José?" asked Antonio. "If so, why don't you say it?"
After stumping on another twenty paces in silence José grunted:
"Senhor Jorge has a daughter."
"I know. The Senhorita Margarida."
Although they were a third of a mile from home José shut his mouth and did not open it again until they were in the house, with the door shut. Then he spoke.
"I ask pardon of your Reverence," he began, using the forbidden title with unconcealed deliberation. "Your Reverence is a holy monk. He understands Latin and French and English. He understands oranges and grapes, and winepresses and stills, better than anybody else in Portugal. But he doesn't understand all the ways of the world—especially young women."
"While you, José," retorted Antonio, "understand all the ways of the world—especially young women—perfectly."
"I don't, Father," protested José in alarm, "and nobody else, either—may God help us all! But I understand a thing here and a thing there. The truth is, Father—"
"Don't call me Father. The truth is what?"